


A Slow and Stopping Curve

by aegle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Getting Together, POV Nymphadora Tonks, Pre-Relationship, Romance, hiatus writing (rough)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegle/pseuds/aegle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concerning Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Set during Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slow and Stopping Curve

**I.**

When the house is quiet and the last staggering members of the Order have exchanged wishes for the coming year, she meanders down the corridor to the library, barefoot because her feet ache, making very little noise on the ragged carpet. She pauses just before reaching the doorway and lets out a slow breath. Her shoes dangle from one hand. 

Without the heat of alcohol-fueled bodies, it is drafty and cool in the hall. He is in there, around the corner, and Tonks could easily change course and slip out into the early morning darkness. None would be the wiser.

It's a strange, gnawing sort of compulsion, she thinks, seeing just how far she can push. 

They'd spent most of the evening near one another, leaning in to talk over the din of music and laughter, occupying a private sort of radius. When someone had put on an overly sentimental ballad (all smoke and horns and transatlantic longing), they'd stood watching in mild amusement as those around them had paired off, despite Sirius's pouting insistence that the song be changed. Remus had consumed enough whisky throughout the evening to agree to her suggestion of a dance, and so they _had_ danced—carefully, all their growing intimacy suddenly on display.

("You're rather good, you know.")

The first time she'd seen him, he had been walking across the dusty Victorian kitchen of Number Twelve. His appearance had been somewhat arresting—face serious, eyes focused ahead. She'd stared at him, watching the way he moved, embarrassed by her sudden, girlish fixation, and had made herself look elsewhere: the faces of other Order members, the grain of the tabletop, her own hands. When her gaze had inevitably wandered back in his direction, Tonks had found him returning her observation, and her stomach had twisted painfully—exposed under his cool eyes, looking away for the duration of the meeting.

Dancing, she'd slipped into these old behaviors. His body had been warm and firm and steady, and the veneer of frivolity hadn't held. They'd been too close. No man's land, she'd thought. Unoccupied territory. When the music had finally faded into something livelier, she'd smiled a bashful sort of smile and retreated to the kitchen, privately downing a substantial pour of scotch.

A very Happy New Year. 

She enters the library. He is seated on the dark leather sofa, watching the fire dying across the room. He looks up at her and says nothing. She's in her burgundy dress, the one that clings, and her legs are bare. She isn't sure of her own intentions. Fumbling seduction, perhaps. Anything less liminal.

"I thought you'd gone," he tells her, apparently wanting to fill the silence. She shrugs her shoulders, feeling ridiculous. 

"I thought I'd sober up before attempting to Apparate," she says.

Remus nods. When he looks at her this way, she feels like he sees every thread of her clothing, every twitch of her fingers, and notes it. It's oddly erotic, and if he does this with anyone else, she has not noticed. 

"And have you?"

"I think I'm in the clear," she replies. 

He's silent again. Possibly he's irritated at the intrusion, but then, he is frequently contemplative, frequently quiet, and his body language doesn't suggest annoyance. The sofa is an ornate, monstrous relic: brown leather and carved wooden arms, worn and cracked with age and lack of care, and he sits in a somewhat slumped fashion on it, knees apart, an empty lowball glass at his feet. If anything, he appears a bit tired. 

Tonks walks toward the fireplace, stopping in front of him. She wants to provide an explanation for her earlier retreat, or else demand that he provide one for the way he lets this unspoken, hovering thing between them carry on, but she can't seem to get her mind to form any satisfactory words. Instead, she feels affixed to the floor, he on the sofa and her standing above him.

They regard each other, and the only sound is crackling, burning. 

She isn't quite sure which happens first: his hands resting on her hips or her body moving to straddle his on the sofa. It feels incredibly slow, measured by years rather than centimeters. At first, there is only stillness—a period of adjusting to this new situation, their eyes meeting almost confrontationally, a half-dare posed from one to the other. The motion makes her dress ride up. Her knees are positioned to either side of him, sticking to the leather. His hands are low on her hips. 

He kisses her. 

Remus's lips are warm, and he tastes vaguely of peated whisky. She leans into him—arms around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, and her hips come rolling forward, seeking out greater contact.

"It isn't just me," she breathes.

"No," he replies. "It isn't just you."

The fire has been dying gradually and now casts long shadows across them, creating lowlight images and patterns that stretch across the furniture and ceiling. He kisses well and without hesitation. The experience is almost surreal—his lips against hers, her insides tightly-wound and flickering.

She has imagined such scenarios, certainly, and more routinely than she cares to confess: at night, trying to fall asleep in her flat, legs tangled in her bedsheets. In the bath, skin turning pink in the hot water. Always a series of fragments and ideas, the apparition of his fingers or his mouth, an estimation of touch. 

This, however, is different. It is heat and flesh, hands roaming, instinctive and enthusiastic, the slide of fabric over her skin. She sucks gently on his lower lip and his hands slide down until they are resting firmly on her arse. He is hard. She feels him through the thin material of her underwear, through his trousers. The feeling of wanting and being wanted is overwhelming, near-nauseating in intensity—all that tight, rushing sensation, euphoric. She begins to rock against him.

The hall clock is chiming. Beneath it is only inhalation, exhalation: his breath catching. The skimming of cheekbones.

His lips have parted under the movement of her hips, his eyelids fluttering closed. Here, she can see his eyelashes, soft, lighter than her own. He grips her and thrusts—her mouth falling open now, a moan escaping—and she realizes, when the sound of a chair scraping across the parquet in another room catches their attention, that she has been on the verge of fucking him on the sofa. 

She suspects that Sirius has woken from his drunken nap in the parlor. Remus is disheveled, and her dress is pushed up, and they look at each other, minds sluggish with arousal. They separate. For a second Tonks expects him to regain his composure and tell her it is a mistake, what they're doing, how greatly it complicates things, but he indicates to the floors above them, glancing upward. 

There is a soft popping noise as they Apparate, and then nothing.

In his bedroom, her eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. The heavy drapes are pulled back, but the night is cloudy, and the window lets in very little light. She's acutely aware of the sound of her own breathing, shallow and rapid, cutting through the stillness. 

Remus studies her face in the shadows, and whatever it is that he's thinking, he doesn't voice it. Instead he backs her onto the bed, settling between her legs and and sliding down, his mouth grazing her inner thigh. He moves inward. His lips are barely touching her; his fingers skim along the waistband of her underwear, slipping underneath.

"You can tell me to stop," he tells her. 

She wants the heat of his mouth, rubs gently against his lips. His grip tightens on the back of her thigh. 

"I don't want you to stop." 

Silence, and then the tickling sensation of clothing drawn past her knees and ankles. Her breath hitches at the feeling of his tongue; she grasps at the fabric beneath her, wringing it in her hands. He's listening to the sound of her breathing, how it rises and falls, becomes frantic. Her hips are thrusting against his fingers.

When she comes, arching upward, the sound of her own voice is unfamiliar. Her hands have snaked into his hair. He kisses her, and she can taste herself on his lips. 

She unbuttons his shirt, fingers fumbling, and slides if off. He unzips her dress. Whatever uncertainty marked the beginning of the evening has dissipated, and he helps her with his trousers, their hands brushing in the dark against the metal button and then the tight skin below his navel.

Her body on his, guiding him into her, taking him deeper, his quiet moan after the first rocking motion of her hips: these are salient. Everything else falls away. They move slowly at first and then, tension coiling, faster, more aggressively, breath growing unsteady. He comes with his fingertips pressing into her skin, their bodies damp with sweat, her head tilted back. Her thighs are shaking. The room is hushed again. 

______

"Hello," she murmurs. Her lips are against his collarbone. The light outside is grey, and it could be early morning or early afternoon. It's impossible to tell. "What time is it?"

"Half-two," he replies, glancing back at the nightstand. There's a wooden clock just barely visible from this angle, something of his in a room of dilapidated Black fineries.

"Good," she says. "I have time." She continues, kissing his neck, "I have to meet up with Mum later. Bit of a New Year's Day tradition, and I'll never hear the end of it if I cancel." Tonks pauses, resting her forehead against him. "I am completely willing to never hear the end of it, though." 

"You ought to keep your plans. What are you doing after?"

"Inviting you over to mine," she replies. She drums her fingers over his chest. "If you don't have any pressing engagements."

Remus laughs, and she can imagine the wry smile that has formed on his face.

"What time? I'm deeply committed to clean-up duty and peeling Sirius off the floor...or whatever surface he's decided on. Both could take an afternoon."

"Let's say eight? Should give you plenty of time."

"Eight, then," he agrees. "And how long do I have now?" 

"An hour, I'd think. I'll need to shower and change." 

"What, not showing up as you are?" 

"Naked with mad hair?" She nips at his ear. "That look is for you."

He is quiet, and he runs his fingers over her shoulder.

The sex has a sweetness to it, less white-fire nerves than the night before and more exploration, more touch. In the January light, they can see each other plainly, each mark or scar bared. Afterward, she kisses him, once again in her dress, her shoes still abandoned downstairs. She figures she'll grab them later. She isn't keen on trudging through the house in what is clearly a post-coital state of disarray.

"I'm truly sorry about the timing," she says. "I hadn't planned..." She's leaning against the foot of the bed.

"Don't be." 

He stands, wearing only trousers, and searches for his belt. A tattoo stands out against his skin, inked on his upper ribcage and visible when he shifts his arm. She had discovered it the night before, running her fingertips over the area, glancing at him with a surprised, inquisitive smile. A remnant of the First War, now shared by only a few. Tonks spots his belt beside the bedpost and tosses it to him.

"Cheers. Shall I bring some wine along?" he asks. 

"That'd be lovely, actually. I think I have a bit of rum in the cupboard and maybe some melon liqueur, so 'abysmal' comes to mind." She picks up his shirt and extends it to him, asking, "Looking for this?"

Remus smiles. "Thank you." 

She watches as he does up the buttons on his shirt and rolls his sleeves, and she's admiring his forearms when he catches her watching him in the mirror. He gives her a look and suddenly she is crossing the room and he is kissing her, backing her against a desk with an audible thump. 

He murmurs an apology. "Go," he tells her, "Apparently I have no self-control."

"I like it." 

"Don't tell me that. Go on. I'll come round later."

She finally manages to Apparate. 

______

Sirius sits at the kitchen table. He's polishing off the remains of the apple rhubarb pie Molly had baked a day earlier. When she could not visit Arthur on the ward, she had needed something to occupy her hands, to keep her busy. She'd still been humming Christmas carols as she'd kneaded dough, and her voice had been high and sweet and wavering. Sirius, who had formed an uneasy truce with her, had not been caught enjoying any baked goods in her presence. 

"Good morning?" Sirius asks, glancing over his fork. He tracks Remus as he moves past and turns sideways in the chair. "I was giving the library the once over just a bit ago and noticed a very nice pair of shoes had been left on the floor. The owner, turns out, was nowhere to be found."

"I don't think they'd fit you," Remus says, putting water on to boil. 

"Oh, but he is full of quips this morning," Sirius remarks. "Is that your passive aggressive way of telling me to mind my own business?" 

Remus smiles to himself, then takes a seat at the table. "I'm honestly shocked you're awake. You fell asleep evangelizing The Moody Blues and nuzzling a bottle of port. You threatened to fight Kingsley when he suggested you put it on the floor."

Sirius makes a face. "Well, be that as it may, you're dodging the question. And I'm very fine now, thank you, since you did not ask. Hair of the dog. Just a little." He nods to a now empty bottle of Chardonnay. "Uncorked and sitting down here abandoned. Seemed terrible to waste it." 

"Chardonnay and pie breakfasts are what we all aspire to, really. Where are Molly and the children?"

"St. Mungo's. Don't derail me. I notice that said missing shoe owner, who is almost certainly a well-known Metamorphmagus and suspected werewolf enthusiast, hasn't made an appearance. So, possibly I'm mistaken?" 

"About?" He swipes Sirius's fork and swallows a bite of pie before he can protest. 

"About? Don't insult me, Remus." Sirius extends his hand, waiting for the fork. "Anyway, in the event that you're too thick to realize, she clearly thinks you hang the stars in the sky." A chuckle. "What a tremendous disappointment when she finds out how shit you are."

The kettle whistles, and Remus moves to take it off the burner. "Gathered all that from a party and a pair of heels, did you?" He rummages in the cupboards until he finds the tin he's looking for. 

"Actually, I got it from months of observing the most tedious fucking flirtation ever to be endured. Women could grow old and die waiting on you to do so much as ask them out for a drink." Sirius finishes the pie and lowers his reclaimed fork. "So, you see, I'm merely curious about the state of affairs and ask again, 'Good morning?'"

Remus sighs and begins to respond, but Sirius smacks the tabletop, cutting him off. 

He points a finger, a smug grin spreading across his face. "You hesitated. And you look less bastard-y than usual this morning. Pleased, even." Sirius nods at his own observations, then adds, "Finally. Jesus, what an episode." He leans back in the chair as far as it will allow, looking up at the ceiling. Remus watches to see if he will tip back and go toppling onto the floor, but he seems to only hover dangerously at the threshold of falling, never to move past it. 

Sirius rights the chair. "Ah, well. My opinion might matter relatively little on this, and given that I'm half mad and have never had a successful relationship, you might not want it anyway, but I think it's good. The two of you. I think it's good. Just don't be a twat."

"I don't plan to."

"You never plan to." He furrows his brow, looking thoughtful. "Tonks is either gifted with the patience of a saint or a bit batty. How long have you fancied her? Longer than she's aware, I expect." He sighs. "Poor girl."

Remus clears his throat and takes a sip from his mug. "Right. I'm terrible. Poor Tonks. You can help me with the downstairs."

"What's your rush? Empty bottles and a bit of disorganized furniture don't really detract from the general decor."

"I have plans later," he says. 

"With Tonks?" 

"Yes, with Tonks." He pauses. "I'm not sure any shops are open today."

"For what? Booze? Contraceptives? Don't bother trying. Everyone'll be fighting over limited resources. But if it's alcohol you're after, don't be an idiot. One of the few benefits of taking residence in this glorified crypt is a rather well-curated wine cellar. I've been working my way through it. I thought you knew." Sirius stands, stretching his long limbs. He looks boyish and weary at the same time. 

"I had wondered who kept you in stock, but I suspected you might be employing Mundungus to be your errand boy." 

"That's a thought," says Sirius. "I suppose you don't venture into the cellar much." Remus had long expressed a distaste for cramped, subterranean spaces, something he'd had to endure while undergoing transformations without the assistance of Wolfsbane. Sirius motions toward the mug of tea Remus is still holding. "Finish that. We're going spelunking."

______

The cellar has a damp, clammy feeling hanging about it. Sirius holds his wand out, the soft glow illuminating crates and vases, busts of long-dead megalomaniacs from the House of Black, and what appears, Remus notices, to be a severely broken gramophone partially obscured by a pair of ladies' bloomers. 

"There should be candles somewhere," Sirius mutters. "When we find them, we can commit some casual arson. Ah, here." He passes his wand over a series of unlit wicks, and the space fills with orange light, faint at first, then enough that they can pocket their wands. "Property's insured through Gringotts, so they'd have me for that, I suppose. Cold-blooded murder and insurance fraud: my legacy." He gestures toward the other end of the room. "Back there. There's a recessed bit."

There is indeed a wine collection. Shelves run alongside the walls of a dead-end corridor, thick with cobwebs and dust. Sirius holds up the candle, dragging one hand along the smooth surfaces of bottles, coating his fingers in a brownish-grey film. 

"I've been picking at random," he admits. "It's all old. It's all laughably expensive."

Remus glances at the most recently uncovered bottle in the wake of Sirius's hand. He's at a bad angle to see the label in its entirety, but he can make out the date.

"1953?"

"As I said," Sirius replies. "You know, I always thought it was funny that she amassed such a collection of the shit only to turn into a teetotaler." He smiles a wry little smile. "She did like keeping things, Walburga."

Remus kneels and brushes the dust off a bottle on a low shelf. 1977. He frowns. "You ought to do something with these."

"What, other than consume them, you mean?" Sirius crouches beside him, inspecting the bottle. "Hum. Wonder what that's worth. Well, sell them, then. Put the money into proper headquarters with a decorative banner and matching cable-knit jumpers for all." 

"This place serves its purpose," Remus tells him. "It just seems..."

"Extravagant? Out-of-touch? Excessive? It certainly is. That's why she bought them. What's this one?" He picks up a noticeably slimmer bottle and examines it, a look of satisfaction forming on his face. "Oh, yes. Yes, exactly." 

"What?"

"I've found something good. I don't want to insist, but you might force me." He looks at Remus with a grin. "This, Moony, is elf-made wine, but a very particular sort."

"Vin de joie," Sirius says, tapping the script and drawing out the French until it is utterly ridiculous. He passes the bottle to Remus.

"Wine of joy?" Remus raises an eyebrow, looking from the label to Sirius, who in his crouched state looks very much like an excited child. "That sure of themselves, are they?"

"No, dear idiot. It's made such that it creates a dreamlike effect, happy and the like. I had it once, that summer I went to Majorca, just before I moved in with James. I stood in the water for a better part of the day just watching fish and tittering. Finished most of the bottle by myself, so I suppose it won't do quite the same between two people. Takes a bit to notice the full effect, mind you." He looks grave for a moment. "And, if you refuse to take it, I'll tell Tonks I had to drink it myself because you hate joy." 

Remus laughs. "Fine. All right. Christ, you should have gone into sales."

"Never," says Sirius. 

______

Remus presses his palm against the mirror, wiping away the condensation, and looks at himself. Thirty-five, rapidly approaching thirty-six. There are days when he looks older, surely, but today he has slept and eaten and shaved, and these actions have the combined effect of making him appear quite young, all things told. At least, he thinks, compared to what he'll look like in less than a week's time. He's not an unattractive man, but frequently he has the appearance of deep weariness, and sometimes his tendency to turn inward upon himself, to exist silently, is misinterpreted as indifference. More than once he has been told that he is aloof, which he supposes is fair. More than once he has been called cold, which he regrets. He doesn't think he is a cold person, but perhaps his actions seem as such.

He's nervous, and it surprises him. 

She'd been so beautiful, fair-skinned and doe-eyed, looking up at him from under those soft eyelashes, and he would have agreed to walk into traffic, very likely, had she requested it rather than the dance. And the entire time, disaster of a love song weaving through the room and Sirius punctuating it with slurred, profanity-laced complaints, she'd seemed tense and somewhat agitated, but she'd not pulled away, not until the end. Afterward, he'd realized she had been nervous, and that had been another surprise. 

When she'd found him in the library, his stomach had done a wild, sickening flip and he'd realized something further: he was wretchedly done for. He'd sailed past the tipping point without so much as a wave, and there was no pretending his affection didn't exist or that he could bury it and sit on it. It was the first time he'd gone to bed with someone citing more than simply lust or practicality in an impressively long time, and now, standing at the basin, he turns off the tap and thinks about this situation. Tonks the Auror. Tonks, cousin to Sirius. Tonks, who, on the verge of twenty-three, is significantly younger than he. 

At twenty-three, he'd spent most of his time working odd-jobs and contemplating the pros and cons of flinging himself off a bridge. He'd been a temporary law copyist, a temporary clerk, a temporary seasonal farmhand. His life had been an exercise in temporary things. He'd read books and bought records, sold those records, bought different ones. He'd roamed and slept on pull-out settees or in rented rooms and occasionally, in a place he'd leased. He'd been alone, mostly, and the affairs he'd had had been brief. Women who had broken up with their lovers or husbands or boyfriends. Women who hadn't broken up with anyone, but who had wanted some form of revenge for unspecified transgressions. At twenty-three, he'd been a mess. The difference, he thinks, is that Tonks has her shit together. And for some reason, she wants him. 

He glances at his watch. Seven-forty. 

______

"Wotcher," she says, ushering him in. She's been in a state of hidden excitement all day, reveling in her private thoughts while chatting with her mother, listening but only half-listening. Now, standing before him, Tonks feels momentarily shy. She closes the door behind him. 

"How's the house? Back to normal?"

"Approaching its version of normal," Remus replies. "How is Andromeda?" 

"Predictable. Trying to con Dad into becoming a vegetarian and fretting about my workload." She flashes him a smile. "She mentioned you, actually."

"Oh?"

"She's glad Sirius has a close friend who's willing to keep him company. She's in a 'balancing' phase right now, so I reckon she thinks you'll have some sort of leveling effect. I stopped tuning in after a bit." Tonks looks at him, and her cheeks are warm. "Anyway, coat, bottle, sorry." 

He hands her the bottle he's been carrying, and she walks with it toward the kitchen, examining it. The label is faded and has gold script lettering she can barely decipher. She pauses in the doorframe, looking back at him. "What am I holding here? Should I be holding this?"

He laughs, hanging up his coat. "That is a gift from Sirius, with love, I'm sure."

"Oh, God," she says. She places the bottle on the countertop. 

"Are you concerned about him knowing where I was headed or about the fact that he's gifting rare bottles of wine?" Remus appears in the doorway. "He figured it out rather easily. He plays a good drunken fool, but it's only play. And this," he motions to the bottle, "is elf-made and apparently has some sort of euphoric effect, if he's to be believed."

"Explains the name," she says, peering at the lettering. She glances up at him. "Brilliant," she says. "Also, thank you. I'm sure I'll thank him the next time I see him." 

Tonks leans against the counter. She clears her throat. "What's the protocol for kissing in this scenario? I feel like I've missed the window." 

"There's a window?" he asks, pulling her over gently by the wrist. She smiles and tilts her head up, and he closes the distance between them. 

______

"What do you suppose would happen if everyone were pissed on fancy wine? No more war? Everyone's friendly?" she muses. She's just taken a sip, the first one of the bottle. The wine tastes like honey and spices, and it sends a warmth down her that spreads and spreads. Her lips tingle. "Who could muster the energy? Send up the white flag and call it done. We've had a good run of it, but there are better things to do."

"All because of bottled happiness?"

"Mm-hmm. Even the Blacks of the world, kicking and screaming in the face of anything remotely resembling it." Tonks smiles. "Except for a few odd ones out."

They are on her floor, propped against the sofa, and the wireless is playing softly from the kitchen. Her leg is against his. He takes a drink from his glass.

"I can understand the urge to resist happiness. Sometimes it's easier to avoid it when it comes near, rather than risk anything."

"Speaking from experience?" she asks him. 

"A bit," he admits. "It's a ridiculous way to go through life. I fall into it, though. Even when I'm aware of it, I fall into it."

"But you're here, now. Are you happy?"

"Post-wine or prior to?" 

"Both," she says. 

"Yes," Remus replies. "Very." 

"Good."

She takes another drink. The soft glow of fairy lights and green holly arching above her kitchen doorway transfixes her for a moment, and she grabs a cushion from the sofa, stretching out on the floor with one arm propping up her head. 

"I reckon eventually people would start fighting over this, too," she says, tapping a finger against her glass. "Ownership, distribution. So, not a solution, in the end. Still, it is wonderful," she says. "What a sweetheart, Sirius is."

"From time to time, he manages."

"Tell me something," she suggests. "Anything you like. A story. A memory."

"I don't know any stories," he tells her.

"You're such a liar." She smiles, nudging his knee with her foot. "Why do I bother with you?"

"I've no idea," Remus says. He appears lost in thought, and then says, "All right. Stories. I once did a brief stint as an erotic pen pal in the mid-eighties."

"What? Wait—really?" She raises an eyebrow. "Was it exactly how it sounds? Someone pays you to write sexy letters; you send off missives praising their silky thighs and rosebud mouths?"

"You're not far off. A witch or wizard goes through a correspondence service, establishes contact with a writer, and the employment portion consists of drafting a series of provocative letters. It was never personal. No real names. It was more a fantasy for them, I think. Maybe they'd lost someone or were incredibly lonely."

"How long did you do it?"

"Three months, roughly three months. And then on to other things."

"And other places."

"Yes."

"Where?" She's rested her foot on his thigh, and he's skimming his fingers over her ankle. 

"After that job? Belfast. I was a research assistant for a scholar of the Dark Arts. Hexes and curses, those were his interests. He consulted with the Ministry. The field work was valuable. It lead to the position at Hogwarts, eventually. Or so Dumbledore suggested, years later, when he showed up on my doorstep."

"What happened to the scholar?"

"He's retired now. At the time, there was a lot of residual paranoia, a lot of anger. Post-war panic. Word got out of a Dark Creature in his employ and his affiliations were called into question. I quit so that he could continue to liaise with the Ministry. Something of a habit, that's become." He lifts his glass. "Your turn."

"Fuck," she says, reaching for him. "That's terrible."

He shrugs. "It was. But I've made my peace with it. Not many things last. Certainly not in terms of employment. At any rate, you owe me a story. Doesn't have to be a serious one."

"Something as unserious as gossip? Because I've a sort-of story, if you want to hear it."

"I want to hear anything you have to tell me." 

Tonks feels herself blushing and clears her throat. "Did you know that Hestia fancied you for a bit? We had a few pints at the pub one night, and she brought up your name. She went on a bit about lunar cycles and libido. Then she strayed into some impressively suggestive things I'll not mention, and two weeks later she was doting on Jasper Rourke from Improper Use of Magic, so make of that what you will."

"Hestia is nice," he says.

"Well, I'll see if her calendar is free for you."

He smiles, watching her. "Do you remember Emmeline's garden party last summer? Shortly before we went to Privet Drive. You were wearing a green dress with flowers on, and you smelled like jasmine. You stared at me all evening and then sat down beside me on a swing." 

She laughs, covering her face with one hand. "I was...enthusiastic. And slightly drunk. I don't think we'd exchanged more than a few sentences at that point. Enough to invade your space, apparently."

"I didn't mind," he tells her. "I was slightly apprehensive that you were going to launch into a discussion on lycanthropy, as I was fairly sure you knew."

"What did I say?"

"Something about Grace Slick," he replies, laughing. 

"Christ," she sighs, giggling. "I don't know how you didn't fall in love then and there."

"No, that came later," he says.

"Oh," she says, falling quiet. Her heart rate has shot up, and she bites her lower lip. "Is that right?" 

"I realize I sound like I'm just handing out drunken confessions."

"No, no." She sits up, nearly knocking over the glass beside her. She catches it, steadies it, and looks at him. "I mean, yeah, it could seem like that if I didn't know you well. You're reserved even with half a bottle of liquor in you." 

"Thank you," he replies dryly.

"You know it's true." Tonks scoots closer to him, sitting turned toward him on the floor. "So..."

"I'm in love with you," he tells her. "Have been, turns out, for a while. Some honesty from a liar." 

Despite everything, has the air of a man who's decided to go all in without knowing his odds: slightly resigned, slightly defiant, slightly high from an unexpected brush with luck. She considers simply pulling him to the floor and showing him _love, I love, I love_ but that can come later, in a bed, where she'll touch him until he believes her words are true. 

Now, however, she cups his face and kisses him, saying, "I'm stupidly in love with you, Remus Lupin, in case you hadn't worked it out." 

Remus stares at her, and then says, "Good." 

"Good," she chimes. 

______

Days later, when he is alone in his bed at Number Twelve, body aching and stiff from his transformation, Sirius knocks gently on the door before entering. He stands in the doorway, and his silhouette is dark against the greenish-yellow light of gas lamps in the hall.

"You're awake," he says, sounding slightly surprised.

"I am." Remus reaches for the light on his bed stand, wincing. In the doorway, Sirius sways. He has a nearly empty bottle in his hand. He looks around the room.

"Not with Tonks. Some nurse she turned out to be." 

"Tonks has an assignment for the Ministry. She'll be in later. Don't wake them, Sirius." Remus indicates to the corridor, where Fred and George are asleep in the adjacent room. Sirius shrugs, closing the door.

"I don't know why we don't Silence the whole bloody house," he mutters. "Protect everyone's ears on every floor. Why be selective about it?" He sinks into an armchair, looking out the window and taking another swig directly from the bottle. "Did it go well, then? The other night?"

Remus sits up against the headboard. His ribcage protests the expansion of his lungs as he breathes. "It did, actually. Infinitely preferable to last night." 

In terms of transformations, however, the previous night hadn't been particularly devestating. With Severus delivering a set of bottles and a sour expression on a monthly basis, there hadn't been a need to hide away someplace remote or to pass the day tending to wounds. The time he typically spent incapacitated was too great a loss for the Order, and now, his joints and muscles pulsing, he feels thankful for his apparent usefulness.

And there'd been the notable addition of Tonks, who'd stayed with him after the moon had faded from sight, leaving in the late morning after shepherding him into bed, her hands cool and gentle on his forehead until he slept. No woman had ever been with him after, and it'd been a strange and welcome change, having her there, drawing the blankets over him without judgment, pressing her lips against his temple.

"Do you love her?" 

The question catches him off guard, and he blinks. "What?"

"Do you think you might?" Sirius is looking at him from the armchair, and his brow is furrowed. For one moment, he looks completely sober, and the slur is gone from his voice.

"Yes," Remus concedes, though he suspects that his answer is redundant. 

"Then go somewhere else. Both of you. Anywhere else. If she loves you, then she'll go with you. America, maybe. Canada. You'll both have each other and the world will keep on here."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about death, mate. I'm talking about death and how it's coming for us. Maybe not all of us, but a big fucking lot of us. And if you think it will pass over people in love, or old friends, or family far and wide, regardless of how tightly they might cling to one another, you're mistaken."

"I'm inescapably aware of that, Sirius. There's too much here, though."

"Bollocks. You aren't going to save the bloody world, either of you. If, perish the thought, something should happen to Dumbledore, who do you suppose is gonna become the de facto head of the Order? Alastor fucking Moody, that's who. You'll both be running his crackpot missions night and day. Constant vigilance, right? People grow apart. People get killed. What are you willing to give up?"

"I am willing to do what needs to be done."

"Make something good come from this house," Sirius says, tapping on the arm rest. "That's what needs to be done. We can't all be dead soldiers."

"Just abandon the Order. Ask Tonks to abandon her career."

"Don't be stupid. She'll get a similar position in a safer place. You'll lose out on some war stories but you'll still have the old ones. God knows those are enough for one lifetime."

"Yes, and what kind of coward would I be, running so that I could be safe while others sacrifice their lives? The sort you would call traitorous, I think."

"If it applied. Don't you ever get fucking tired of it? I get tired of it."

"So you say with a bottle of firewhiskey in your belly, but in the morning, it'll look different. Everything for the cause. Everything for those we lost. The battle hymn of Sirius Black."

There is a crackling sound in the air, and both men watch as Tonks Apparates at the end of Remus's bed. She looks between them, clearly tired, her hair a soft peach hue pulled into a low ponytail. She raises one hand to Sirius in a weary sort of wave. He stares at her and says nothing.

"Dropping in directly now, are you?" Remus asks her, voice hoarse, and she looks momentarily apologetic until she realizes he is teasing her. She sits at the foot of the bed and rests her hand on his shin.

"All right?" she asks him. He can't discern whether she's referring to his present condition or the tension in the room.

"He's fine," Sirius says from the corner. "I've seen him worse." 

"Pass it along, will you?" she gestures to the bottle Sirius is holding. 

"I will give you these dredges on the condition that you convince him not to be a martyr," Sirius replies, standing. He points at Tonks. "You seem to have more sense, so I'll deliver all instructions to you, in the future." Sirius, mustering as much balance as he can, approaches her and relinquishes the bottle. 

"Cheers. Also, thanks for the wine. It was a really lovely gift."

"No more lovely gifts until I am listened to in my own house." 

Tonks raises an eyebrow and then looks back to Remus. "Well, don't be a martyr, then." 

Sirius sighs, and he heads to the doorway. "Think about it, mate," he says. "At least do that. I'm a ghost here. You know I am. I rattle the windows. And I reckoned for a long time that you were a bit of one too, but you're not. Not unless you choose to be." 

He exits the room, and Tonks looks from the door to Remus before saying, "I'll leave that one alone, shall I?"

______

They are walking through Hogsmeade, Harry and the others safely beyond the doors of Hogwarts, and it has started to snow again. They'd decided to take their time returning to London, letting the Knight Bus chug off into the distance without them. Tonks walks ahead of Remus, and he does not follow when she takes a corner and heads down a narrow alleyway. 

When she is out of sight, tucked behind a building among several crates and barrels, she allows her wizened features to slip away and sheds her tweed coat, taking from her bag a jacket far more to her liking. She emerges in the street again and wanders over to him, sliding her hands into her gloves as she joins him. 

"Blonde?" he asks, as they walk side by side through the street. 

"Just trying it out," she smiles. "Thoughts?"

"You'll certainly turn heads." 

"It's Hogsmeade. Let your guard down just a little."

"Precisely why I'm cautious," he tells her. "People here know what I am."

"They also know who you are," she says, gently. She claps her hands together. "I fancy some mulled wine." 

"It's half-ten in the morning, Tonks," he says, starting to smile. 

"Come on," she says, taking his hand. "Or I'll snog you right here in the street. That'll turn heads, surely."

"That is the strangest threat I've ever received," he replies. 

The snow is falling faster, catching on their eyelashes, and she reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. "Well, I'm a strange person," she says. "But that's hardly a surprise." 

Remus examines her with a sober expression, a line forming between his eyebrows. There is a high, tinny bell as someone exits a shop to their right. He tugs her closer by the front of her jacket and kisses her, one hand wandering up to her cheek. 

"All right," he says after, "on to mulled wine, you little alcoholic."

She smiles brightly, and they walk in contented silence toward The Three Broomsticks. 

**II.**

July, and a warm rain falls onto the already damp ground. Just outside the church, water collects on the petals of lilacs and phlox, runs toward the dark earth, and pools. There had been a sweet smell in the air when they'd arrived, the scent of wet flora and soil. The priest's voice echoes in the little space, and her vertebrae dig into the unforgiving wooden pew. Beside her, Remus stares ahead, jaw set, and the scripture washes over them, an incantation in its own right. 

"The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace. For if to others, indeed, they seem punished, yet is their hope full of immortality..."

Emmeline's people were Muggle-born, her mother and father brought up in the Catholic tradition, and so here they sat, skin prickling with sweat, in the parish church where the Vances had been buried for generations. Phillipa Vance, long widowed and having lost her only child, sits several rows ahead, a dark shawl draped about her shoulders. She is not crying. Like everyone gathered in the church, she listens with a solemn expression. 

"As gold in the furnace, he proved them, and as sacrificial offerings he took them to himself. In the time of their judgment they shall shine and dart about as sparks through stubble..."

There are some in attendance whom she recognizes but many she does not, and it is a far more publicized funeral than Sirius had been given. That had been a quiet, private affair: several from the Order; her mother. Truthfully, calling it a funeral would have been a lie. They had simply sat about in Andromeda's garden, sharing stories and liquor, and Remus had stayed by her side the entire evening, helping her when he could. She'd still been recovering from the Ministry. Two broken ribs and a concussion. A bleak bed in St. Mungo's as her bones had healed and the ringing in her ears had grown faint. Released, staggering, muscles aching, into the London afternoon. Her mother had fretted endlessly, lips in a thin line, voice low and venemous as she had repeated, "Oh, Bellatrix, you wretched bitch." Tonks had been stoned on pain potions, but not enough to ignore the whispered demand her mother had made to Remus Lupin, pulling him aside: "Don't let her near my little girl." 

In the churchyard, among the stone monuments, Emmeline is lowered into the ground, and across the coffin, Hestia meets her eyes. Her face is pale. She's brought her man, a blonde fellow with a ruddy complexion, and he is holding an umbrella over the both of them. Phillipa waits until she can no longer see the flowers atop her daughter's coffin before walking away from the crowd, clutching her shawl, her shoulders shaking. 

"Dora," Remus says, stirring her. This is the name he has settled on, slipping into it over the course of months. Funny, she muses, that the most important men in her life have christened her as such. It is a private sort of address, conjuring a history, and for that reason she loves it, as she loves him. 

"Mm?" She looks up at him. "Home, then?"

______

"Would you like tea? I was about to have some myself. Pomona has given me some rather nice lapsang souchong if you're feeling adventurous."

"Thank you, but no." 

He is seated across from Albus Dumbledore, who has just conjured a delicate china teacup, likely as aged as its owner. The Headmaster pours steaming, smoke-scented tea into it before leaning forward in his chair and saying, "Then you'll pardon me for indulging in a mid-day ritual." 

"You said you had private matters to discuss?" 

An enchanted model of the solar system sits on Dumbledore's desk, planets making their gradual revolutions around the sun. Remus watches as the light catches and reflects in the Headmaster's glasses.

"Private and somewhat pressing," Dumbledore responds. "How much do you know about the political sentiments of the werewolf community? 

"It's hardly a community."

"Apparently they've organized. Rapidly, it seems," Dumbledore says. He takes a sip of tea and looks thoughtful. "And they've been recruiting. There are now several affiliated groups throughout the country, radicalized by Fenrir Greyback and his inner circle. They're offering their support to Voldemort, I've been told."

"In exchange for?"

"Greater power, I assume."

"No," Remus says. He frowns. "No, perhaps they believe that's what will be offered, but it's certainly not what Greyback believes. He isn't a fool. I'm sure he can't think Death Eaters are going to suddenly change their minds about Dark Creatures once the dust settles. He must be after something more."

Dumbledore smiles behind his tea, but it is a smile lacking in cheer. "I have always appreciated your quick mind, Remus, even if it reaches conclusions in which neither of us rejoice." 

They sit in silence. Venus rotates happily backward on its axis. The miniature sun burns hot.

"What's his angle, then?" Remus asks, eventually, rubbing his brow. "Recruit until he can rival Voldemort? Kill those who refuse to join him?" 

"That is what I'd like to find out. And given his current connections, Fenrir Greyback may serve as a rather valuable resource." 

"I don't understand. What, exactly, is my role in this? I've no connections among the werewolves. I'm an outsider to them."

"For what I'm about to propose, you're well-qualified."

"Well-qualified to act as a spy, you mean?" The words come out as an observation, not lacking in resignation. The entire conversation has been nothing more than a briefing. "That is what you're suggesting, unless I'm mistaken."

"You would be the best candidate for the position, yes. And, importantly, you're someone I can trust to do it. We have so little of it in war."

Dumbledore leans back in his chair. He flicks his finger and the teacup vanishes. "I need someone who can inform the Order of their plans," he continues. "Where they develop new encampments, and who they might target. And we need to know what Fenrir Greyback knows - a most difficult request, I realize." 

"Do you honestly expect any of them to trust me?"

"Not immediately, but in time, yes." 

"In time," he echoes. 

"The risk, while I believe you could manage it, would be substantial. It's not a position I bring up lightly."

"And what about Tonks?" 

Dumbledore pauses, apparently not anticipating the question. "Minerva confided to me her opinion that you might be involved, though I admit I did not give the matter my full attention. It appears I should have relied more heavily upon her powers of observation."

"I can't put her in danger." 

"I imagine her duties as an Auror and member of the Order place her in some danger quite regularly, but she has not abandoned these, to my knowledge."

"This is different." Remus rises from the chair, pacing over to the window. The day is overcast, and the afternoon stretches out, grey and thick with cloudcover, beyond the tower.

"In what way?"

"Tonks is from a particularly vindictive family line. Bellatrix Lestrange nearly killed her at the Ministry, just before she succeeded in killing her own cousin, as you'll recall. The desire to see her dead among the Death Eater camp will do nothing but intrigue Greyback, and if he should discover me, our connection, it might be just the push he needs. He'll maul her for sport simply to prove he can and treat himself to a pint after."

"This is speculation. There is nothing to suggest that Greyback will recognize you, even in close proximity, and with an alias he would have no reason to suspect any past encounters. And, it bears mentioning, you are talking about a highly trained Auror as though she were a student newly arrived at the gates." 

"You think I'm being condescending." 

"I think that affection is clouding your reasoning."

"You don't know what he's capable of." 

"I do, quite sadly. Remus, you would be doing the Wizarding world a tremendous service. And if it makes you feel slightly more at ease, I'll cast Protection Charms at Nymphadora's place of residence myself. I'm fond of her, you know." He sighs. "I wish you would consider it, but I cannot fault you if you decline." 

Remus stares out the window. There is no breeze, and the office behind him is quiet, its mechanical hums and whirs soft, its magic soundless. "When?" he asks. 

"We've made arrangements for you to meet with a werewolf from the largest camp within the week." 

______

"You're back," she says, peeking around the kitchen door. She's wearing a silk robe that stops mid-thigh and cradling a giant mixing bowl, the contents of which he cannot discern from this distance. Her hair is pulled back in a short, messy braid, little strands of pink hair escaping it. If circumstances were different, he thinks he'd quite like to ask her to marry him.

"Did the meeting go all right? Molly gave me her recipe for treacle tart. I thought I'd have a go, but mostly I'm feeling remorse." She walks over to him and kisses him, still holding the bowl. "Now I'm in too deep to abandon it." 

"You are beautiful," he tells her, his lips close to hers. 

"Did you do something awful?" Tonks asks him, raising an eyebrow. "Thank you, regardless." She holds the bowl up. "Do you have any idea how involved baking is? Molly is deeply under-appreciated. The Order should be paying her for her services. Come on, you can make your confession in the kitchen." 

Remus follows her into the brightly lit room, heads immediately to the cupboard, and pours a glass of Ogden's. She watches him. He sinks into a chair.

"That bad, was it?" she says, putting down the bowl. She walks over to him and kneels down, looking up at him with impossibly dark eyes. Remus reaches out to touch her hair and stops himself, instead swallowing the pour of firewhiskey. 

"I've taken an assignment," he tells her. 

"What sort?" 

"The sort which requires that I go away." Another pour.

"For how long?"

"I'm not sure. Quite a while. Months. Months, surely." 

Her voice becomes tight and cautious. "Doing what?"

"Dumbledore wants a spy in a werewolf encampment. They've been coerced into acting as the Death Eaters' muscle." 

Tonks stands, and as she rises he can smell her perfume. "What does Dumbledore expect you to do about it?"

"Deliver information to the Order. He's particularly keen on determining Fenrir Greyback's plans." 

"Greyback? The one who turned you? Jesus, Remus." She's leaning against the counter, brow furrowed, arms folded. 

"Greyback strikes me as the type who remembers his victims," he says, rotating his glass on the tabletop. "It's an accomplishment for him, turning people. He enjoys what he does. I don't expect him to recognize me, but if he should find out my name, it would put you at risk." He lets out a slow breath. "And even if he doesn't, being seen with you, that would put you in danger as well. You're an Auror, they'd have an easy time determining your identity." 

"Then we'll be careful," she says. "There are Concealment Charms on this flat, anyway. You can't find it unless you've been shown it. Job requirement." 

"And if we're seen outside your flat? They could target you while you're working for the Ministry. The Order. Buying groceries."

"So could my aunt, if she took the initiative. So could anyone who really, really wanted to find me." Her expression is defiant, chin tilted up slightly. 

"Right, well, if Greyback shows up you can just smack him with a rolled up newspaper on the nose."

"I might do," she replies. 

"Dora, he makes his victims want to die, do you understand? He makes them want to die." 

Her face softens, but only a little. He feels her hand on his shoulder. "I'm not dismissing your concerns. I'd rather you tell Dumbledore to find someone else, and honestly, I'm not pleased that you didn't discuss it with me beforehand. But apparently I can't stop you, so I'm trying... I'm trying to figure out what to do. We can take precautions." 

"I need you," he says, tugging her gently to face him. "Even if that means I'm not next to you. I need you." He kisses the inside of her wrist. "Let me do this, and when it's done, when it's safe, I'll come back." 

"When will it be safe? You're asking me to give you my blessing to disappear for God knows how long. I won't know where you are, how to reach you. No, I'm not giving it." 

"I will find a way to contact you."

"What, sexy pen pals?" She pulls away.

"I don't want to do this," he says.

"Oh? Is that true? If you don't want to do it, then don't."

"Is that your philosophy?"

"Sure. That's my philosophy. Whatever you like."

"Dora," he begins, and she looks at him with such frustration that he falls silent. 

"Don't," she tells him. She walks out of the kitchen. He waits, looking out the window, studying the sprawling city. A line of cars, honking. Lights from nearby buildings. Condensation on the windowpanes.

When Remus enters the bedroom, he can see her at the bathroom mirror. Her eyes are red, and she wipes her hand across them quickly as he approaches the doorway.

"I love you," she tells him, not looking at him. "Please don't vanish. I don't know what to do." 

"I'm not a very good person to love," he says. "But you _do_ know what to do."

She covers her face with one hand, and her chest heaves. He watches her sob and hates himself, watches the way her small frame shakes, her hand supporting her weight on the sink. Perhaps, he thinks, feeling ill, it is better if she hates him, too. He moves to comfort her automatically, as though he has been designed to do such a thing, and he listens to the sound of her inhalations as she leans her head against his chest. He is torn between despair and wild, hungry optimism. Perhaps it will easier than he fears. Perhaps he'll be able to leave freely and visit her somewhere, forgetting temporarily about his obligations. Perhaps when it is done, he will ask her to be his wife and never, never leave her again. But now, he cannot guess, and so he holds her and kisses her head and apologizes. He doesn't know, anymore, how to be without her, and yet, most of his life he has existed without even knowing her name. It is curious, the way this has happened. 

Later, lying on his side with her forehead pressed into his chest, she moves her head up in the darkness and kisses him, and her lips are sweet and warm and uncertain. It feels wrong, with so much unresolved, to respond as he does, but he is terrified that it will be the last time she touches him. He wants to remember everything. Her hands on his skin, the feeling of being inside her, the breathy sound she makes, lips against his ear. They can't seem to stop, resting only briefly, lungs expanding and contracting, hearts hammering, before one reaches for the other or kisses some exposed region of skin, and everything begins again. Eventually, when the sky is gaining light, they sleep.

______

Three days after he has gone, Tonks rises from her bed, feeling like a stranger in her own flat. The quiet morning sun filters in through her window, illuminating dust motes in the air. Her face feels angry and inflamed, and she isn't sure she has actually slept, though she must have, because somehow, the hours have slid past. In the mirror, she sees that her hair has taken on a dull, brownish tint, and it takes her the better part of an hour to morph it away. Afterward, the brown creeps back in.

At the Ministry, she puts in a request to be posted in Hogsmeade. 

______

September, and he wakes to the sound of metal. Two men are fighting on the opposite side of the wall, their bodies causing the gate to clatter as it swings open. There is a dull thud as someone backs against brick, and the distinctive scrape of shoes. Remus rubs his hand over his face. He's been sleeping in this spot for the past week, out of the rain, and his back aches as he sits up and throws aside the rough blanket. Outside, the morning cool and damp, he passes by them unnoticed. One has the other in a headlock, the incapacitated man's legs kicking at the ground. They've bloodied their shirts. 

The abandoned colliery sits behind him as he approaches the canal and stoops, running his hand through the murky water before wiping it across his face. There is a persistent fog clinging to the Black Country landscape, making the morning heavy. He catches his reflection in the water: kneeling, tired. He's sent her two letters since he's been here. One, written at night by candle because there had been nothing else to light the darkness, the other, scrawled in daylight, miles away, slightly stained. He'd noticed the cut on his hand midway through writing, and while the wound he'd quickly healed, the parchment had been difficult to acquire. The stain had stayed. He left the encampment on his own very rarely, venturing to post letters or to meet with Dumbledore in a worn-down barn near Sheffield, a place traveled to by Portkey, safely away from Hogwarts and the stir that would rise from seeing a ragged, weary-looking man walking its halls. 

He avoids using magic when he can. The werewolves in the encampment consider it soft. The ones that rely on it do so for violence, preferring their physicality for everything else. He has tried to show them how to purify water, to move great loads of rubble, to light flames in the night. They want to turn the magic of the wizarding world upon itself, but beyond that, they have no interest. And yet he has seen several among them screaming, asking for broken bones to be healed or cuts to be closed by nothing less than magic. 

He dreams of her. 

Frequently, he is tempted to leave and return to London. The werewolves seem to be losing their suspicion over time, but he has started to wonder, grimly, if it might be better to avoid seeing her. There is no end in sight to this post, and each day he feels the sense of guilt churning inside, the knowledge that she would be free to move on if he would only let her.

He sleeps poorly and eats sparingly. An angry line runs across his chest. Another across his forearm. There are werewolves who anticipate the moon, celebrating it, drinking and carousing during the several days before, sending their voices upward, dragging each other off to bed, sometimes not bothering with privacy, their bodies exposed and rolling. Once he had stretched out, eyes closed, beside a low tree and away from the frenzy, his head resting on a folded up blanket. He had been on the verge of sleep when he had felt a weight settling atop him, hands slipping beneath his trousers. Maire, the werewolf, red-haired and pale, leaning down to kiss him. He'd sat up and moved her, and she'd laughed. 

"Do you not like women?" she'd asked him. 

"I like them well enough," he'd replied. 

"Just not enough to fuck them?" she'd said. "Suit yourself." 

Afterward he'd walked along the canal, staring into the dark water. There are mornings when he wakes up hard, dreams still swirling in his head, and he thinks about dark eyes and candyfloss pink hair, her cheekbones and her lips, the fine details of her hands, her thighs spread open to him, and if it is quiet and calm, Remus touches himself until he comes, and he wonders from time to time if, in her bed, Nymphadora Tonks is doing the same. 

______

"Broomsticks?" It is Savage, falling in line with her, his steps eclipsing hers so that she must now walk faster to keep pace. 

"Rather not," she says. 

"You bloody well look like you could use a drink," the Auror says. He is handsome in the way Bill Weasley is handsome: young, rebellious, bright-eyed. His arms are covered in tattoos, just visible where the uniform ends, and his hair is styled in the manner of a ton-up boy. Tonks half-expects him to produce a comb from his sleeve and run it through his dark hair, and the thought makes her lips twitch upward. 

"I saw that," he says. "It was a fair sight nicer than the look you've been favoring lately. What do you call it, 'Consumption Chic?' That right?"

"What is it you want?"

"So many things. Where to begin?"

She sighs and he chuckles to himself. They walk past a row of fat pumpkins propped up on bales of straw.

"Just a drink, is all," he says, raising his palms up in defeat. "Not that I'm complaining too much, but this is a dull fucking post.Thought you might enjoy a pint and a few laughs. I saw a Ravenclaw fall down a flight of stairs today, right into a pile of fake vomit. I can give you a play-by-play."

"Were they the ones by the statue of Lachlan the Lanky?"

"Were you there?" he asks, sounding surprised.

"No, those are just a menace," she says. "I'll do a pint and then I'm heading home," she tells him, adding, "The Hog's Head is closer." 

"A pub is a pub," he shrugs, and they head toward the entrance. Inside, her face pales and she stops, nearly causing Savage to knock into her. 

"What?" he says loudly, and the sound carries easily throughout the small room, catching the attention of Minerva McGonagall and Remus Lupin where they sit talking by the fire. McGonagall's mouth opens slightly, and then the look of concern and surprise is blanketed by her default expression of calm composure. 

She stands—a tall, slim figure, lips drawn in a tidy line—and nods. "Good evening, Nymphadora. I'm just on my way back to the castle. Remus was kind enough to deliver some documents to me in person." She turns to him where he sits, eyes focused solely on Tonks, and tells him briskly, "I'll put these in safe keeping." 

Savage is making noises of confusion behind her, and McGonagall, blessed woman, grabs him by the sleeve on her way out, saying under her breath, "You'd better come along with me."

Tonks stands motionless, and all she can manage to say, weakly, is, "It's October."

"Minerva said..." he begins. He gestures to her hair. "I didn't think it would be..."

"This? Oh, I'm used to it by now. It's been three fucking months of it," she says. Her voice sounds bitter, even to her own ears. "Do they have parchment where you've been?"

"Surprisingly little," he tells her. He stands, and she moves a bit closer to him. 

"You look terrible," she says. 

"I can't argue that."

"When are you coming back?"

"I don't know," he says, and she can hear the sadness in his voice. It makes her heart ache. She feels inclined to touch him, to put her hands to either side of his face and kiss him, but she stands where she is. 

"You can make calls to McGonagall, though," she observes. "Right here. Where I'm stationed. How many times have you been here?"

"This is the first," he tells her. "Will you sit?"

She does so reluctantly, and he remains on the opposite side of the round wooden table. He has circles beneath his eyes. There's a mostly-healed cut on his lower lip.

"I didn't expect to see you," he says. "I'd simply asked Minerva to meet away from the castle grounds."

"Did you know I was here?"

"I imagined, this late, you'd be back at your flat. But, here you are."

She frowns. "Does it bother you, what I do with my time?"

"No," he replies. 

"Does it bother you who I spend it with?" 

His eyebrow goes up, almost imperceptibly. 

"No." 

"Savage is an Auror," she says. "He's stationed here as well. He fancied a pint and thought he might cheer me up, or something." 

"Or something," Remus nods dismissively, and Tonks lets out a humorless laugh. 

"Really? Are you really jealous of him? You've not written in a month."

"As I said, I'm not upset by how or with whom you allot your time." When he meets her eyes, his expression is flat. "It is your time, after all." 

"Oh," she says, leaning forward. "All right." The anger is building and there's a mean, cutting feeling twisting up in her stomach. "But if he had treaded into 'something', that'd be fine? If I'd let him?" She looks around to make sure they're not attracting attention, and then scoots her chair closer to him, her knee against his. "Do you suppose that I _would_ let him? Or that I might enjoy it?"

Remus looks at her with such a scathing glare that it rattles her, but she's dug herself in at this point, and she wants a fight, even if it's stupid and petty. She wants him to get angry. She wants, too, to be needed and desired and _sought_ by him, this man sitting across from her. She cannot bring herself to touch him, for many reasons, none so overwhelming as the fear that he will not allow himself to touch her first. It's a stalemate of the worst sort, benefiting neither.

"Perhaps you ought to," he says, too calmly. There is something in his tone—a clash of indifference and indignation—which suggests he believes his own words; it makes her fight against a sudden impulse to flip the rickety table. Instead, she stands up and walks out of the pub, and he doesn't catch up with her until she's approaching Honeyduke's. 

"Dora, I'm not chasing you though Hogsmeade like a love-struck sixth year," he says, walking alongside her. 

"That's exactly what it appears you're doing," she replies. "If you follow me long enough, I reckon we can join up with Savage. I'm sure he'll be excited to know you've given him the go-ahead." 

He stops, running a hand back through his hair, pacing. "Christ," he mutters. "The go-ahead? What do you want? Do you want me to fight him in an alley? All spoils go to the victor?"

"If that's what you'd like to do," she says, coolly. "But you aren't jealous, and you don't mind." 

Remus blinks, then turns and walks in the other direction. He makes it several yards before he sighs and turns back to her. 

"All that matters..." he tells her, choosing his words carefully, "all that I care about, is that you are safe and happy. Right now, you seem to be fairly destitute in one of those categories. So, if you want to go to bed with your co-worker rather than a werewolf who's been living dangerously close to a mine shaft for a quarter of a year, I'll not try to stop you." He sits down on a nearby bench. "You look ill, and if it's my fault, I don't want to have a hand in drawing it out." 

Tonks goes quiet, losing some of her fire. "I'm not at all interested in him," she sighs, sitting next to him. "Don't be ridiculous." He shoots her an exasperated look, but remains silent. She sticks her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. Eventually, she says,"I think about you every day."

"You shouldn't," he replies. He's looking ahead, not observing any particular thing. He's somewhere else now, she realizes. In his head. Detached. 

"Shouldn't I? Don't you think it would be strange if I didn't?" She folds her arms, sinking a bit lower on the bench. "Do you think, if I didn't miss you terribly, that I'd have any interest in provoking you? God. Savage? Really, I think not." 

"You certainly won't get much satisfaction dwelling on me," he tells her. 

"Dwelling on you? What do you think you are, some sort of bad memory? Last I checked, you were my boyfriend—a bit serious, slightly over-protective, but I like you, well enough." She nudges him, and when he looks over, she leans her head on his shoulder. He's mired in his thoughts, and the gesture loses its intimacy. 

A few minutes pass, during which neither speak. She murmurs, as though to settle the matter, "I wouldn't ever do that. You know I wouldn't." He brushes a kiss against her forehead, and she says, "Besides, you've ruined me for other men. How would I get off, do you think? Imagining you? That hardly seems fair." 

She feels him tense, a nearly indiscernible shift in his posture, his tell—an indication that he is aware, pulled back into himself, and she takes the opportunity to slide her fingers between his. He has very lovely hands, masculine and sturdy, long digits entwining with hers and resting on his leg. 

"Some poor bastard in my bed, and all I'd be able to think about would be your mouth, kissing me, your hands running over me, slipping between my thighs," she says, speaking low so that only hear can hear, low so that even the occasional evening passerby does not pay attention. Remus is very quiet and very still, and when she looks up at him, his pupils are large and dark. She puts her lips to his ear. 

"Someone else's body, and all I could imagine would be your body, you bending me over, your cock inside me, because that's all I want. Surely you don't think that's changed." She feels his hand wander into her hair, and she whispers, lips flush against his earlobe, "Do you miss me?"

"Yes," he says, voice ragged. 

"Do you want me?"

"All the time," he replies, turning his head slightly. His cheekbone is pressed against hers. She can feel his breath, uneven and stilted, against her skin. 

"Would you take me right now, if you could?" 

They make it to her bedroom doorway after Apparating in her kitchen—manage to stumble across the living room without breaking anything, clutching at one another. She loses her balance and takes him down with her, and sprawled half-in, half-out of her bedroom, she tells him to fuck her; she can't wait for the bed. The floor is hard and digging into her back, but he's already positioned between her legs, pressing into her, and she's missed the weight of his body. 

His hands are more calloused now; rough. He grips her more forcefully than she's used to, one hand tangling in her hair and tugging. He isn't patient or gentle, his hip bones knocking into her, her clothing removed only so much as it allows him access. She comes with a shout and can't move after, lying on the floor and panting, her heart echoing in her ears.

His face is on her chest. Tonks can feel warm air blowing across her skin each time he exhales. One arm is still entangled in her uniform. 

Showering together, sometime later, he holds a strand of her hair between his fingers and she can see that it has a faint carnation pink tinge, growing in intensity as it reaches her scalp. He looks at her, face concerned, brows knitted. Water trickles down his cheek. 

"So it is me, then," he says. 

"It's one bit of hair," she tells him. "Stop trying to interpret it."

"Dora," he says, and she cuts him off, kissing his chin and jawline, pressing her body against his. 

The water beats down overhead, running over their shoulders, creating paths down their backs. Her fingers brush along the scar on his chest, tracing it as it runs from his right clavicle over his sternum and down. 

"How did this happen?" 

"I don't know. I don't remember the transformations anymore." 

She kisses it, letting her lips linger at each point along its course. 

"I love you," he says. His voice sounds hollow, and when she looks at him, he appears miserably unhappy. He touches her hair. 

______

Remus writes her the following month and tells her that he will not send any more letters, that he cannot continue to drag her along with him. He tells her that he wants her to forget him, that she'll be better off finding someone who can make her truly happy and who will share her bed each night. He cannot offer her anything, much less what she deserves. He tells her that she is beautiful and young and brave; she will find joy easily. 

He omits that, presented with the scenario again, he would fall into it all over, would love her just as deeply. 

Like the letter he'd penned in the event of his death, he places this one in the hands of Minerva McGonagall, but he asks the older witch to burn the document he'd given her in October. He thinks it would only burden Tonks further, were she to read it. Minerva refuses, looking at him with sad eyes and cautioning him in her heavy Scottish accent not to be rash. She tells him she'll keep it tucked away in the hope that it's never delivered.

He watches as the folded parchment severing his ties with Nymphadora Tonks is bundled into a leather satchel alongside student reports and assessments, and he returns to the Black Country afterward, sits at the edge of a slim canal, and weeps. 

______

Molly reaches over and pats her hand. 

"You know, I baked some brown bread this morning," she says, and Tonks stares from her nearly empty cup of milky tea to Molly's kind, lined face, and back again. "Why don't you take some back to your flat?"

"Oh," Tonks says, vaguely. "Yes, thanks. That'll be nice." 

"And the spice cake. Take all the rest." 

"Molly," she says, "you'll break Arthur's heart." 

"Well, I'll make him another. I'm sure he'd rather this one go with you. And between you and me, with Fleur around so often these days, it's nice to be reminded that my baking is appreciated by someone who isn't a Weasley."

"Molly, you're the best cook I know," Tonks says, finishing her tea, and across the linen tablecloth, Molly smiles. 

"You're sure you won't marry Bill?" she asks, and then, waving the idea away, she sighs. "He'll come to his senses, Tonks. I've never seen a man look so miserable. 'Pining' doesn't begin to describe."

"I left a stack of letters with Aberforth in Hogsmeade, just on the chance Remus happened to stop in on business. He's not responded to any of them, but I suppose I should have expected that." She spreads her hands on the table, closes them, opens them again. "It's an awful feeling, being ignored." 

Molly's face softens, and she puts her hand on Tonks' forearm. The gesture is motherly and affectionate, and she is reminded rather swiftly that Molly has raised a houseful of children, several of whom, undoubtedly, have come to her with broken hearts. 

"He might not be responding to the letters, dear, but I can't imagine for one second that he's ignoring you." She looks at the clock, standing up from her chair. "That'll be Arthur," she says, and from her chair in the kitchen, Tonks can hear Molly greeting her husband warmly, can imagine her bustling about him as they engage in an intimate and familiar routine. She glances out the window, toward the snow-covered distance, and her eyes prickle and burn. 

______

In the spring, she is injured while on a mission for the Order and finds herself alone in St. Mungo's, drifting in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of her mother's voice, then her father's, then a Healer's, and between their varied tones, silence. She'd been dueling a Death-Eater, and the terrain had been remarkably unforgiving: uneven, tangled with branches and dark, exposed roots. In her effort to maintain steady footing she'd sacrificed response time, and her opponent had found an opening. They'd ignored her after, the Death Eaters. Tonks has gathered this much from the garbled bits of conversation held over her body, curled up in the clean bed. They'd thought she'd been dead. 

There had been, apparently, a good deal of cover-up required. What had she been doing, away from her assigned post at Hogwarts? Did she consider it responsible or rational to confront known Dark Wizards without assistance? Did she take seriously her duties and obligations as an Auror? 

They will not discharge her this week.

She's tired of hospitals.

She has headaches. These will go away, she is assured. So too, the light-sensitivity and the stiffness. So too, the inability to tolerate sound and smell. Recovery requires time, she is reminded. They keep her stomach filled with potions, and she can never quite get a sense of the time. 

The ward smells like ointments and disinfectants, and she is always cold, even beneath blankets, even covered in sweat. 

She is dozing when she feels a hand on her cheek, stirring her, and she grabs for it, eyelids heavy and drugged. 

"Minerva got a message to me," Remus tells her. He's in the chair by her bed. She isn't sure how long he's been there. "You're lucky to be alive, I hear." 

"That's what I'm told," she says, still nuzzling his hand. "I'm...my head's a tad slow. Wake me if I fall asleep. I'm always falling asleep."

"It's all right to sleep," he says, and she shakes her head, eyes closed.

"No, you'll be gone."

Remus is quiet, and she feels him run a hand over the top of her head, smoothing her hair. 

"I'll tell you when I'm going," he says softly. "I'm not going now." 

"They'll make you leave," she says, looking at him. Her vision is blurred, and she blinks, trying to clear it. He's leaning close enough for her to see the blue of his eyes. His palm is warm against her cheek. 

"Who will?"

"Staff. Healers. They make everyone leave. Kingsley stopped in. They made him leave." 

"You need rest," he says. "That's probably why. They won't make me leave."

"Tell them you won't."

He strokes her head, and she lets out a long, ragged breath. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, the light in the room has shifted. He's sitting in the same chair, looking through documents she can't make out from this angle. He notices she's awake and tucks them away, saying, "Hello." 

"What time is it?"

"Nearly five. Your attendants are afraid of me, I think. They've left me alone."

"Did you tell them you were a werewolf?" Tonks shifts her head, neck stiff. "What twats." 

He smiles, shaking his head. "I did not, but I figure they're aware. I had to give them my name when I arrived. I'm on the Registry. They check for that. But apparently I'm also given clearance to be here. Some mutual acquaintance has taken the initiative to see to it."

"Dumbledore?"

"Not likely. He's terribly busy." 

"McGonagall?"

"My suspicion." 

"Remus," she says, looking at him, "I don't want anyone else." He looks away, and she says, quietly, "Not anyone else. And you know it. Or you wouldn't be here."

Later, when she is given another round of potions, the words come spilling out of her. She cannot stop them, her head dizzy from the concoction of medications. Her eyes keep fluttering shut, and the pillow seems to sink and sink. 

"I love you," she says, clasping his hand. "I know you don't want me to, but I do. I've loved you for so long. I think I'll love you until I'm in the ground."

He sits silently, and before she is dragged back down into a strange, dream-filled sleep, she feels his lips against her forehead. 

______

The world has changed. The world seems a stark and foreign place.

He stands outside Ted and Andromeda's home, raises his fist, and knocks on the door. It is a country house, surrounded by fields and vegetation, accessible via a little lane that trails past their front gate. A worn swing hangs lazily from the branch of an ash tree, and Remus looks at it, feeling saddened and low. He imagines a young Nymphadora Tonks, gliding through the summer, done up in ribbons (he doubts she would have tolerated ribbons, but in his mind, it seems fitting), and he thinks he might actually be the worst person in the world, letting her leave the castle with that haunted, empty look in her eyes, his words shoved down deep into his throat and extinguished. He'd gone to his vault at Gringotts after—hardly a vault, more of a well-guarded cupboard—and sat, rotating his mother's ring between his fingers, its little yellow diamond glittering. He'd kept it, the ring. He was fairly certain Hope Lupin would come back from the spirit world and haunt him endlessly if he sold off her most valuable possession, never menacing, never threatening, just telling him how utterly disappointed she was. 

Andromeda's silhouette cuts an elegant line through the soft light of the hallway. She regards him coldly from the doorway, and he is reminded of Sirius, whose face often took on a similar expression of disdain in his youth. Hers are features suggestive of class and refinement, family lineages and status, and her eyes, like her daughter's, are a deep shade of brown. They are narrowed at him.

"I cannot think of a reason why I should let you in this house," she tells him. Her voice is quiet and dangerous. 

"I've come to talk to her. Is she here?"

Andromeda slips out from behind the door and onto the stone steps, her form graceful in the lamplight. 

"If you think, Remus, that because I am the least mad among my sisters, I will not harm you, then I would caution you that I am still a Black and would not shed a single tear if I had to bury you in the garden. Am I clear?" 

"Yes," he replies, and she moves forward until he can see the darkness of her pupils, her rage seeping out around her. 

"Nymphadora is my daughter, my only child. I tolerate you because you made her happy, once, and for five minutes, you had even earned my trust. But now, you are just a man. Just a man begging for her attention. Plenty more will follow you, I'm sure." She is wearing traditional robes—dark blue satin, almost black—and her hand hovers near her hip, no doubt near her wand.

"Andromeda," he says, and she cuts him off. 

"Do you know what it is like to comfort a heartbroken child? To listen to them tell you they are not wanted? Not loved? To watch them waste away and cry when they think you can't see? And her powers—her powers, Remus. Gone. Because of you, and what good are you, hmm? What possible good are you?"

"She is wanted and loved," Remus says, voice steady. "Very much so. That's why I'm here."

"Don't you think you've done enough harm? Leave her be. Let her forget you. Give her a true chance to forget you."

"Dromeda?" 

Ted's voice in the hall—a low, Northern accent—and then, his face comes into view as he opens the door. 

"What's all this?" he asks, stepping into the night air. "Remus?"

"Hello, Ted," Remus says, and Andromeda looks between them angrily. 

"I won't have him stringing her along," Andromeda tells her husband. She scowls at Remus. "She told us about Hogwarts, how you let her stand there in front of everyone. Have a sudden change of heart? Or were you too much of a coward to handle a little girl crying all over you in public? Perhaps you can only fill her head with rubbish when you're alone."

"All right, love," Ted says, putting a hand on his wife's shoulder. Her nostrils flare, but she seems to calm. He looks at Remus, frowning, and his blonde hair practically glows in the lamplight. "Do you want to come in?"

"I'd like to speak to your daughter, if she's here." 

"She is. Just went up to have a bath." 

"You'll wait on her until she's finished," Andromeda says, voice still sharp. "She bloody well waited on you." She turns and disappears into the house, robes billowing, and the two men regard each other. 

"Garden's out back," Ted says. "If you'd prefer. It's a nice enough night."

Remus follows him around the house, and they pass beneath an ivy-covered archway, thick with green, waxy leaves. Ted gestures to the gazebo, and Remus watches as he takes out a pack of cigarettes. 

"Smoke?" Ted asks.

"I gave it up."

"So did I," Ted nods. "So don't tell Dromeda or she'll mount my head next to yours on the wall." He lights the tobacco, and it fills the air with a strong, sweet scent. 

"Dumbledore is gone, then," he says, exhaling, and Remus replies, "Yes. He is." 

"And you've been off spying on werewolves," Ted says, as though creating some sort of mental tableau. 

"I'm removing myself from the position," Remus replies, looking out toward the small pond situated in front of them. The stars reflect off the water. He understands why she has retreated here: someplace tranquil, someplace familiar. "I've formed enough alliances within the encampments to outsource any information gathering to a select few. I'll meet with them periodically, and based on what they tell me, decide upon a reasonable course of action." 

"So you're back, then." 

"I am."

"Does she know?"

"I've not told her." 

"But you're going to? That's why you're here, I take it." 

Remus sighs, leaning against the banister. "There hasn't been an opportunity. At Hogwarts, I didn't think... Dumbledore had just died. Bill Weasley had been attacked."

"And here comes Dora, eh?" Ted flicks ash into the darkness, smiling fondly. "She's always had a flair for the dramatic. When she was a little girl, she'd pack her travel case and tell me she was heading off, and that I'd not see her again. 'Not ever.' She'd make it to the edge of that thicket there, in a huff, and as soon as she looked back and saw me at the door, she'd come running." 

Ted takes a drag, and the end of the cigarette crackles. "She said she thought you were trying to protect her. Andromeda forgets from time to time that protecting the ones you love isn't always a cut and dry bit of work. But, you tried your best, and I reckon you did the only thing you knew how. Doesn't make it right, but I suppose it doesn't make it wrong, either."

"I didn't know she'd lost her abilities until I saw her months after," Remus says. "I thought it was horribly unfair, asking her to wait on someone whose life was so full of risk and uncertainty. So, I encouraged her to move on. I thought she'd get them back."

"Stubborn. Obstinate like her mum. Sets her sights on something and has to have it." Smoke swirls around his fingers. "But you know, I'm not entirely upset with her decision. Seems like you get it right eventually. You want her to be happy. You kept your head with Dromeda, and that's no small feat." 

"Andromeda is trying to protect her as well." 

Ted nods. He grinds his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. "That she is." He looks at Remus. "But Dora doesn't need it as badly as you lot seem to think." He rises to his feet. "I'll call Andromeda off. Woman's like a train, though. Once she has momentum..."

"Ted," Remus begins, and the other man lets out a laugh.

"You're going to ask her to marry you?" 

"Are you..."

"Nah, I can't read your mind. You've got that nervous, harried look. The one where you can't decide if you want to stay or run. I figure Andromeda doesn't rattle a grown man that badly, whatever she might say, so it's got to be something else. Just a lucky guess." 

"Right." 

"I'm not telling her mum, though. Not right now. No. Too much for one night. A man's got to sleep at some point." He gestures toward the house. "Here's your future bride, very likely, Remus, and she's got daggers for you, so that'll be your first trial, eh?" 

They both watch as Tonks strides toward them on the grass. 

"Thanks, Ted," Remus says. 

"Aye." 

______

There are shadows visible under her eyes, even in the minimal light afforded by the flickering lamps in the gazebo, and she's wearing a loose button-down over a pair of shorts. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. 

"Fancy a walk?" she asks. 

They stroll alongside the pond, and in the air are the sounds of crickets and the occasional splash of a toad, slick body plunging under the water's surface. 

"So," Tonks says, looking sidelong at him. "Are you going to tell me why you're here, or should I start making guesses?" 

"I'm ending my work among the werewolves," he tells her. "I have a few arrangements to make, but it shouldn't take more than a week at most."

"Finally coming home, then," she says, looking ahead. "Must be a relief." Her tone is decidedly cool, and she has her arms folded, as though shielding herself. 

"Last night," he says, and even like this, walking side by side, Remus can see her frown. "At Hogwarts. That was my fault. I shouldn't have let you leave. I wish I'd had the chance to speak with you."

She frowns, shoulders rising in a small shrug. "Don't worry. I enjoy looking like a hysterical idiot in front of people. It's what makes me charming." 

"They thought I was the idiot." 

"Well, you are." 

They continue walking, neither speaking. The night air is warm, and it clings to their skin. He can smell her soap: a fresh, bright sort of scent that picks up in the breeze. The night before, she'd had her hands on him, pleading with him. And he'd stood there, stunned, mind reeling. He feels inclined to plead with her, now, but she sighs, interrupting his thoughts. 

"What if I told you to leave? What if I told you I didn't want to see you again?" 

"Is that how you feel?" 

"Would it break your heart?" 

"My heart's been broken for a long time," he says. 

"Is that supposed to make me feel sympathetic? Our friends were dying around us, and you dropped off the face of the earth. You didn't ask me what I wanted. You just did it."

She stops, looking up at him. Fierce and lovely, Dora is. Large eyes and fine bones, her mouth set in an expression of anger and determination. "You broke it off with me by letter, Remus."

"I did," he admits, "and I'm sorry." 

"I had so many questions, even upstairs when Mum told me you'd come, and now that I'm out here, I don't know if I want the answers. I reckon I must, because here I am, standing beside a pond at ten in the evening instead of drowning you in it. If I ask you, will you be honest with me?" 

"I will," he says. 

Tonks seems to consider this, and asks, "Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to be with me?"

"Yes."

"Do you think I'll forgive you?"

Remus pauses. "I don't know." 

She furrows her brow, leaning close to him. "Which do you think is more likely: that I've finally moved on, or that I still love you? Or, here's another: that I will tell you to turn around and walk away and leave me alone, or that I will let you take me against that garden wall?" He says nothing, and she folds her arms again. "That feeling of not knowing? Hovering somewhere between grief and hope? That's what I've lived in." She sighs and says, voice quivering, " _Fuck_ , Remus." 

"I'm sorry, Dora," he says. "I made a mistake."

"A mistake? That's really all you can say?" Her eyes dart away, incredulous, and she takes a step back. 

"I thought it was the best thing, at the time: to take the assignment, to let you go. I've regretted it. I still regret it." 

Remus takes her elbow, and she glances down as though offended by the idea of his hand on her skin, but she does not move, does not shuck him off. She stares back at him defiantly, looking rather like her mother, and he continues. 

"Every time I had to see you, or hear about you, or sit in someone's house where you were missed, I regretted it. When I fell asleep, I thought about you. And when I woke up. I locked myself in old garages or empty silos thinking about you. When you were in that miserable hospital bed, I sat and watched you sleeping and would have given anything to take you home and look after you, and I couldn't. You looked at me like I'd come to save you." He falters, swallowing. "I don't know what's more likely. I know that I love you, more than I've loved anyone, and I'm sorry that this is the form it's taken. I never claimed, well..." He's trailed off.

Tonks looks at him, and there are tears streaking down her cheeks. She wipes at them with the back of her hand. It takes her a very long time to say anything, and when she does, it is only, "Don't go." 

"Tell me what you want, then," he says quietly, studying her. "Do you want me? Despite all of it? Because I want you. I could never bring myself to tell you that I didn't. Whatever you think, whatever you took from that letter, I've always wanted you."

"Yes," she nods. Remus can feel her shaking, and he places his hands on her shoulders. She feels frail beneath his hands, but she isn't, not truly. She is filled with a sort of resolve he can only grasp at.

"What else do you want?"

"I want you to stay with me," she tells him. "Don't ever sleep somewhere else. Come home to me." 

"Dora," he says. His pulse is rapid. He exhales. "Do you want to get married?" 

"What?" She touches his face. He can feel the fluttering of her fingertips against his skin, the most delicate and miraculous feeling in the world, and she asks again, "What?"

"I have nothing to offer you, but I don't know how to be happy without you. I'm entirely yours. You have me. I want to spend my life with you, if you'll let me." Her hand in his, now, and he asks, "Will you marry me?" 

______

It is morning, and morning is: light, filtering in through the window, traveling over her bare shoulder; the sturdiness of a bed beneath him and the warm press of her back against his chest as a clock ticks through the morning; the smell of her skin and the motion of sheets slipping when she stretches and rubs against him, his arm around her waist; the splay of carnation pink across the pillow, and the urge to drift back asleep, face buried in his wife's hair. 

"Hello," she murmurs. 

"Hello."

**Author's Note:**

> *Minor edits made to accommodate more recent works.
> 
> Clearly, this isn't particularly compliant with the Remus/Tonks material posted on Pottermore, but I tried to make sure, at the very least, that it worked with everything in the books themselves. It had been collecting dust during my fandom hiatus. The title comes from a Philip Larkin poem, "The Whitsun Weddings" and the scripture quoted is Wisdom 3: 1-9.
> 
> P.S. See also: [Notes from the Gallery](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7608064), a short companion piece.


End file.
